


All Roads Lead Home Someday

by ksam2299



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-09 03:41:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11660895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ksam2299/pseuds/ksam2299
Summary: There is no place for bastards in Thedas, not at the courts, nor the table.Definitely not in a home.Or is there?I just started playing DAO and created a darker-skinned Cousland and after seeing Bryce and Eleanor, this popped into my head. What if the Cousland noble wasn't related to the Cousland family by blood? How would that change the story?This will be updated as I continue my playthrough, as often as I can. This is also my first piece here, and any comments and criticism would be appreciated.Thank you!I do not own anything from the dragon age series. Including characters, quotes, etc.





	1. Prologue: Bryce's Bastard

**Author's Note:**

> All chapters will be noted with any warnings or potentially graphic scenes.

            Lyara Cousland was a bastard, and everyone in Highever knew it. Well, almost. While many took to calling her Bryce’s Bastard, the young woman only barred the Cousland name by decree, not blood. Bryce Cousland was not her father, no more than Eleanor Cousland was her mother or Fergus her brother. She wasn’t a true bastard, but that didn’t make things any better for her.

            It had only been a few weeks after Fergus’s ninth name day that Bryce Cousland came home in the dead of night with a squalling babe in his arms. Eleanor had not been pleased with the unexpected guest, and even less so with her husband’s lack of explanation for her or her coming. It was as if Andraste herself had simply dropped the child into the castle halls. In fact, that was the story a delighted Fergus told anyone he could find once he realized he had a “little sister.” If word didn’t spread quickly through the servants’ quarters before, the young boy’s comments had quickly hastened it.

            At first, they had tried claiming her as a niece or nephew (after Bryce spent months convincing Eleanor and the rest of the “damned castle” that he did not sire the child.) Then, a relative from across the sea. But no matter their efforts, it was quickly realized that such a ruse would not stand as the little girl grew alongside her brother. The differences were so stark that even a tranquil would have flinched at the notion that the children were related.

While Fergus and his parents stood fair-skinned, and even paled in their aging, Lyara’s skin darkened as she grew into a young woman, a deep bronze complexion she tried to desperately fade. But no matter how much the young girl scraped at her skin under the bath waters, the only thing she managed to do was scrape her flesh raw.

Flowing ebony hair grew as she did: free and wild, and every time Lyara was brought outside the castle, a new tale would surface about her striking, dark eyes, and how easy one became lost in them. Even as a girl. Some named them beautiful, others, pathways into the fade, to the demons. Those were the tales the teyrnir covered her ears for, and prayed that she would not take them to heart.

Fergus did not mind any of such tales, nor the opinions of those who told them. For all he was concerned, Lyara was his sister, blood or not, and he would treat her as such, even when their mother would not. In time, it would by Fergus that would teach her to ride the great stallions in the stables, Fergus that snuck her into the kitchen and larder for midnight snacks, Fergus that acted out their father’s tales when she awoke screaming about the monsters under her bed, Fergus to teach her how to wield a sword. Fergus, to bring her the wriggling runt of a mabari litter on her 18th name day with a note saying “ _Kennelmaster didn’t want him… He reminded me of you.”_ Eleanor thought it was offensive. Lyara loved it. Loved the newly named Xander. Loved her brother.

And it was with that love that Bryce Cousland took a risk that could haunt the Cousland name for centuries: On that day, he named Lyara his own, a successor to the Cousland family. But while such a title quieted some of the questions surrounding her legitimacy, the whispers only grew louder in concern with Bryce’s Bastard.

            Little did any one of them know that those whispers were just the beginning.


	2. Opportunities Lost

The reins were damp and rough in her hands, worn and disintegrated from years of use, and yet Lyara didn’t have the heart to replace them. In fact, she paid them little mind as she raced over the field on her bay stallion, all caution thrown to the wind screaming past them. It was no time for caution, no place for hesitancy. In the fields, she did not have to dance with the glances from castle servants and visitors alike. She didn’t have to drown out the rumors, the names, the whispers. She didn’t have to worry about any of it. Here, she was free.

            Here, she could pull her dark hair from the bun that tied it to her scalp and let the winds tangle it as they pleased. Here, she could scream and holler and laugh and smile and not worry about what it meant to be a lady in the eyes of the court. Here, there was no game. No rules. No box to fit in. Here, she could feel most at home.

            Of course, Eleanor would berate her for her lack of propriety and the mud that would cover her tunic and the leaves and tangles in her hair. She would tell her how she would never find a man to amuse such childish antics. The maids would bemoan her, about how they would have to wash and dry and brush and comb and scrub until Lyara would find a spider, or maybe a fat toad, and drop it in the basins. Watch them scream and run so that she could tailor her time to be in solitude. Although, she would have to keep Xander with her. That would be her solace. She would keep the mabari at her side, so that the mutt wouldn’t raid the larder. She could use it as an excuse that she had done one thing right that day. Anything to keep the castle at ease.

            As Lyara slowed the mare to a trot, she sighed and replayed the thought in her mind, as she always did. The castle would not be at ease today. Not because her hound stayed away from the larder. Not even a hundred mutts _guarding_ the larder would be enough. Not with the news that was coming in. It only got worse as the days passed. At first it was a few creatures, stragglers, wanderers. Now it was talk of a Blight.

            Over the horizon, the sun was just beginning to end is ascent into the sky, the glorious pinks and oranges fading into blue as the morning turned to day. The grasses swayed gently in the summer breeze, whispering in their own tongue, unless and until the mare ripped them from the earth to eat. It was a beautiful sight. Calming, peaceful, simple. How could something like this bare a Blight?

            And yet, with every word of the impending chaos, her heart quickened a beat in anticipation, dare she say, excitement. It was an opportunity that grew with every passing day. A chance to prove herself. To Highever, Ferelden… Eleanor and Bryce. To the Cousland name. She had no hand as an heiress to the estate, not even if Fergus didn’t exist. She was nothing to the house, no matter what Bryce proclaimed to the public, and even though he insisted that she had a hand to play, she knew better than to believe. She was a bastard. Not a Teyrn.

            But a war could change that. Not even a war. Just a single battle. Because it wasn’t just a battle, nor a war. It was a chance to make her name. No, _forge_ it, as her blades were. Trial by fire. By darkspawn.

            _“Some lands are ruled by men and women who believe that they have been elevated to their rank by the Maker Himself, but in Ferelden, rulers must earn their place.”_ The hardened words of Bryce Cousland rang inside her skull as she watched farmers toil on the distant horizon. She had been no more than seven when he uttered them, maybe even younger, with tears streaming down her face and a shattered wooden sword in her hand.

            _“You’re just a bastard,”_ the village boys screamed, ripping the wood from her hands before snapping it, one by one, until all that remained were splinters. _“You’ll never be our Teyrn! You’ll never be anything but a bastard! Just Bryce’s Bastard!”_ They kicked up dust, poked her with their pitchforks and hoes, threw stones until she scrambled away. Ran as fast as her bloodied legs could carry her until she was in Bryce’s arms. At some point, she was even in Eleanor’s, sobbing and shaking, unwilling to say what had driven her to such an inconsolable state.

            They had coaxed the story from her eventually, all the while tending to her bruises and cuts, the splinters in her hands, the tangles in her hair. It was the first act of motherly love she had seen from Eleanor, the woman gently brushing her hair before nimbly braiding the strands into a crown over her head while Bryce tended to her tears. Fergus even wandered in at one point after he had finished training, and threatened to fight anyone she could point out in a crowd. He almost needed more consoling than Lyara. In the end, she had ended up in Bryce’s lap, overlooking the fields of Highever as he imparted his wisdom. _“You can be whatever you wish you Lyara, so long as you fight to earn it. Become it. You could be the greatest hero Highever, no, Ferelden, no- this world.”_

            Lyara shook her head, laughing at the memory. It all seemed so far away now in the mid-morning sun. But it wasn’t. Because today, there was war. Today, there was opportunity to earn her name. She could earn her honor… as long as she lived to revel in it, or at least tell the tale. She would earn the title Bryce gave her. With a gentle click, Lyara goaded the mare back towards the castle, both eager and dreading her return. The magic of the ride was gone, the freedom fading as she turned back to the castle. Instead, she focused on the sound of hooves against the earth, the hollow sound echoing in her chest.

            The stables, along with the rest of the castle were full to bursting, bustling with activity at the arrival of the Arl and Lady Landra. The stable boys were scrambling to find homes for all of the animals moving in and out of the stalls, and the men barking orders to them. She felt sorry for them, just local young-borns trying to make an honest coin. Bryce had taken them in, and they had offered all they could, but the sheer amount of activity was overwhelming the entire staff.

            “Look out!” Lyara barked, grabbing a young lad by the collar of his shirt as a knight thundered past on his armored steed. The boy nodded in thanks before offering to take the reins she held only to be met with a shake of her head.

            “My lady?”

            “Focus on not getting trampled. I can take care of her.”

            “Many thanks, my lady… Oh! And Bryce was asking for you. I told him I’d pass the message on.”

            “And to you lad. I appreciate your word.”

            She watched as the young boy scurried off, his brown locks bouncing with every step. He reminded her of Oren, the thought of her nephew bringing a smile to her face and a spring to her step as she brought her mare to her stall.

She would have taken him riding that morning had she not been under “direct supervision” with the child. Oriana had sworn up and down to the maker that she would never let the two of them run off alone, especially after Lyara had shown the boy how to wield a knife. In her defense, he had never seen a blade, and he had already seen his eighth name day. Not only that, but the kid had a demon-killer smile, the kind that could light up anyone’s day, even Aldous or Nan. Regardless, that excuse did not go over well with his mother. Fergus had laughed, but made no move to defend her.

_“I won’t have my son and my sister taking up arms against me.”_

_“Afraid he’ll win?”_

_“I want to spar with dad!”_

_“Lyara! Look what you’ve started!”_

            After that, her meetings with Oren had turned into secret rendezvous in the larder or the kitchens, spread by secret messages left in loose bricks and cracks only nimble fingers could reach into. Fergus said he would be the greatest warrior the Cousland family would ever see, but even Bryce could see the makings of the young soon-to-be rogue. He would chuckle as he caught them in their meetings, and would smile and return the notes he found in the bricks. They were, after all, the ones he shared with Lyara years ago. Eleanor would scoff at such antics, but even she would occasionally smile when they ran into each other, and she didn’t give them away to Oriana. That was more than she could have asked for.

             Lyara crossed the yard at a brisk pace, skipping every other step as she climbed her way to the main hall, weaving between the groups of solders, servants, guards, and townsfolk alike. If Bryce had wished to see her, something must have come up with the preparations, and the last thing she wanted to do was give him a reason to not take her on the march.

            She saw him right away, Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever, easily picked apart in even the largest of crowds. To his left stood a man she vaguely recognized, one of passing. His nose was large, hooked, and only seemed to bury his already sunken eyes further into his head. The gray, patchy hair on his head and chin reminded Lyara of a rat, and when he spoke, the fact only cemented itself further.

            “If it isn’t Bryce’s bast- little spitfire. More beautiful than the bards speak of.”

            “Lyara, this is Arl Rendon Howe, an old friend of mine. We rode together back during the war.”

            “A pleasure, my lord.” The words were stiff, forced, her smile just as much. She already wanted the man out of Highever.

            “My lady.” He bowed slightly before continuing on. “You pain me Bryce, adding insult to age. We would be riding again if there was much less gray in our hair and fewer scars on our backs.”

            “Is that such a problem my friend? War isn’t what it used to be. Besides, isn’t it your men we are waiting on to march?” Bryce’s tone was light, jesting, but Lyara only saw the chord of fury that flashed across the Arl’s face. For a moment, she thought she had imagined it, but it had been there. It had been true, and it didn’t sit well with the rogue.

            “Stuck in the marshes. Had I worked with the dam before the rains-”

            “We will meet them soon enough, when the battle is over and done with,” Bryce laughed, the Arl offering a pained, pitied smile.

            Lyara grinned wickedly. “Not with Fergus and I on the field. Nothing will stand in our way.” The words were bold, daring, but did not garner the reaction she had hoped. Bryce had grown silent, and the smile quickly slipped from Lyara’s face. “We are riding out, aren’t we?”

            Bryce looked to the hall, his lips pursed in focus. “Fergus and I will be riding out at dawn, you will remain here to see to the needs of the castle.”

            “What-”

            “Lyara, please. I know you wish to join us on the field, but someone must look after the duties of the house.”

            Lyara could have cursed in that moment, berated the man in front of her for his backwards promises. Yes, the house would be under her oversight, but she would only be a placeholder. There would not be the respect, nor the experience that Bryce would hope to see in her. He placed too much faith in her name over her true status. Fergus could easily stay behind and rule with ease. And yet…

            “As you wish.” She looked to the floor, her knuckles white with rage as her fingers curled into fists.

            A gentle hand was placed on her shoulder, forcing Lyara’s dark eyes to the Teyrn’s. “You will be fine, Lyara. We’ll be back in a matter of days. If anything, you get to keep the comfort of a warm bed and Oren’s mischief.”

            Lyara sighed. “I understand, Bryce.” She knew what he wanted. And she would comply. It was all she could do.

            “You are lucky, my lady, and your father boasts great confidence. Even if it is a matter of days, for those days, the castle is yours.”

            “While you fight darkspawn and see the world,” Lyara grumbled.

            “Lyara… Please. Look after the castle. The guards will be posted, along with a handful of knights, but please. Watch over it.”      

            “I will, you have my word.” Maybe he was using it as a way to make her feel better, maybe it was a means to guilt her. Regardless, it did not matter. She would not be marching. She had lost her opportunity, and she did not wish for one to present itself while she was to be keeping watch over Highever.

            “Let us just hope that this isn’t a true Blight. Maker help us all if it is...”

            “They haven’t spotted an archdemon, have they?” Howe piped in, his arms crossed.

            “Not yet, but I’ve seen the masses. I wouldn’t be so keen as to write this off immediately.” The rattling of armor caught Lyara’s attention, as a knight strode through the hall, locked on Bryce.

            “Ah, Duncan. Good to see that you made it unharmed,” Bryce nodded, frowning. “Lyara, this is Duncan, the warden-commander of Ferelden.” He turned back to the newcomer. “I suppose if you have graced us with your presence, you are here to recruit.”

            “Indeed, my lord. I come for a young man, ser Gilmore. And, as I see it-”

            “No. She is already watching the castle in my absence. Unless you plan to invoke the Right of Conscription.”

            “Not at all my lord…”

            Lyara sighed, watching the men drone off in conversation. Plans for the march, provisions, the warden recruitment. Nothing she would be a part of. Only when Bryce called her name did she rejoin the odd merriment.

            “Could you do me a favor and speak to Fergus? I believe he is upstairs with Oriana and Oren.”

            “Of course. I will see to it.”

            “Thank you, Lyara… for everything. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to speak with Rendhoff about the march tomorrow. Good day, gentlemen.”

            “It is as you wish, my lord,” Lyara bowed stiffly, watching Bryce disappear into the flurry of activity. It was only after she was sure he was gone did she dare to turn back to the warden commander.

            “You said you were here to recruit?”

            “And it was made clear that you were unable to be recruited at this time.”

            “But you will be at the castle, yes?”

            “I will. Tomorrow, we can meet at dinner if you wish to talk.”

            It was written all over her face, she knew it. And if it wasn’t known before, the second she eagerly nodded, it was known then. Duncan offered a polite nod in response.

            “I will see you then, my lady. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” And then there was only Arl Howe, his face scrunched up in disdain at the whirlwind around him.

            “If you will excuse me,” Lyara bowed again, already wanting to be rid of the man. He nodded stiffly, and she took it as an acceptable acceptance of her leaving. She wasted no time. Those who thought of her as a “simply a bastard” were not worth her time.

            The outside of the hall was just as busy as the inside, servants flying over the stone tresses and through back alleys and hidden passages. It was all Lyara had to not disappear into one herself, and she might have had a familiar redhead not stopped her.

            “Ser Gilmore! Greetings!” She had enjoyed the knight’s presence, and his willingness to spar with her when they both had the time to do so. They often spent time together, practicing or learning or teaching each other what they could to pass the time. Fergus had once joked that he should be asking Bryce for her hand, and soon found himself covered in flour and chicken feathers in response, but she could not deny the company she enjoyed with him. Not as a lover, but a dear friend. Besides Fergus and Oren, the knight was one of few that did not mind her history, nor her status.

            “Greetings to you, Lady Cousland,” he bowed. “I have been looking for you.”

            “And I you. Warden-Commander Duncan has arrived at the castle seeking to recruit you.”

            A smile split the young man’s face. “The warden commander, really?! Oh, just to think, what an honor! It would be everything I would have ever dreamed!”

            His excitement was palpable, and Lyara wished she could have reveled in it further, but Gilmore’s new soon put the mood to rest.

            “But- before I forget, my lady. Lady Eleanor was looking for you. She said it was of the utmost importance. Not only that, but she also told me that your hound has gotten loose in the larder again and is wreaking havoc. Nan’ll have its head if it’s not dealt with right away.”

            Lyara sighed deeply. It was to be a day only of disappointment and frustration at the rate it was going, but she was at least going to be in good company while dealing with it. Hopefully.

            “Well then, I suppose we should go see to it.”


	3. Dogs Where They Shouldn't Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for such a late, and uninteresting chapter. Things have been busy, and I had hoped to add more to this, but I wanted to work at setting a publishing schedule and things have been incredibly busy. I promise things will pick up soon.

            She could hear the screaming from the other end of the walkway, high pitched shrieks interrupted by the occasional curse. “Get rid of it! Skin it! Do _something_! If I can’t get into the larder, I’ll skin both of you useless elves, I swear it! Now get that bloody hound _out!_ ”

            Lyara couldn’t help but laugh as she and Ser Gilmore approached. The scene was so routine, so comical, she had stopped trying to stifle her smiles ages ago. Nan had tried everything to keep Xander from the larder from traps to locking him in with the other kenneled dogs. He worked his way out or around every time.

            “That mutt’s too clever for his own good,” Gilmore sighed as they rounded a corner, the echoing of their footsteps momentarily silencing Nan’s tirade. “Much like someone else I know.”

            Lyara shrugged, and smiled. “Guilty as charged. Let’s just hope neither of us gets turned into next month’s rations because of it.”

            “Someone would notice if you were skinned.”

            “You underestimate her story-telling abilities.”

            The door to the larder had been shut, an odd occurrence considering Xander’s visit, but helpful none-the-less in giving her the option of keeping the war-hound enclosed in the hopes he could be corralled. At least, that’s what she would tell Nan. In truth, she knew what would happen. He would heel the second she asked, truly asked, and they would go about their business as they had so many times before. Just like clockwork.

            “LYARA ADIRA COUSLAND!”

            The words almost made her slam the door shut and laugh at the same time. Something about Nan almost always made her feel that way; not wanting to incur the woman’s wrath, but always knowing that she didn’t mean it and was still secretly the sweet old nanny she was in Lyara’s youth never failed to make her smile under any circumstances.

            “Yes, Nan?”

            “Don’t you ‘Yes Nan’ me you scoundrel. You know exactly why you’re here! You- Andraste so help me move the chickens before that damned mutt eats dinner! We have a packed castle to feed. And you! Don’t just stand there, move! We have to clean! Prepare! _GO!_ ”

            “Yes my lady,” the elves scurried out from under the woman’s wrath, heads ducked down and quickly past Ser Gilmore and Lyara to work in the corners of the kitchen.

            “Damn knife-ears… Almost worse than your mutt. Almost.”

            “Be kind to them, Nan. They’re doing all they can,” Lyara reasoned, her voice softening.

            “Well ‘all they can’ isn’t going to feel the Arl’s men, now will it?”

            “The few he brought with him,” Ser Gilmore muttered, Lyara nodding in his sentiments.

            “Well it doesn’t matter if your dog eats all we have for dinner!” Nan snapped them both back to attention, motioning to the tanned mabari pacing around the back door. “I’ll serve him up in that case. What would you think about _that_ you flea-ridden mongrel!”

            “Nan!” Lyara ducked under the woman’s sharp gaze to reach Xander, motioning for the hound to back away from the door. He wouldn’t budge.

            “Xander,” she hissed, tugging on the dog’s neck in vain, Nan’s gaze growing sharper.

            “You see?! Even you can’t keep him under control! That dog will be the bane of-”

            “WOOF!” Nan screamed, and recoiled at the thunderous bark.

            “He’s going to-”

            “Nan!” Lyara growled and shook her head. It was unlike Xander to disobey her commands, which was frustrating by itself, and the old woman’s remarks were doing much more harm than good at that moment.

            “Xander, please. Not now, bud. They really need to-”

            A deep rumble in the mabari’s throat silenced her pleas, and instead turned Lyara’s attention to the door of the larder. By now, the elves had stopped their work entirely and were looking in the same direction, fearful and tense.

            “What is it, boy?” She slowly backed away and turned to the elven servants. “Is there something in there I should know about?” Lyara wasn’t sure who she was talking to at that point, but she got an answer nonetheless.

            “No, my lady. Not at all. We j-just want the dog out,” the young elven man stammered out, the woman nodding vigorously beside them. Behind her, Xander barked again, the growling intensifying as the war-hound lowered his body to the ground in preparation for an attack. If there was anything Lyara knew about mabari, it was that their instincts were never wrong.

            Her hands moved slowly, each pulling one of the long blades from her back, Ser Gilmore mirroring her movements with his sword as they approached the door. Nan moved back twice as quickly, stunned into silence as she hid with the elven servants she had just been barking orders at, the trio trying to find safety in numbers.

            Lyara had slid up next to the handle on the door, Ser Gilmore positioning himself by the hinges on the other side of Xander. After a few more moments of silence broken by the occasional growl, Lyara gave them both a small nod as her hand slipped toward the wood.

            “One…” she mouthed, tensing.

            “Two.” Xander tensed, his ears flattening against his head.

            “Three!” Lyara shouted, throwing the door open and flying into the larder.

Nothing.

            Ser Gilmore came crashing in right behind her, the pair utterly bewildered as to what would have set the dog off.

            “For the love of Andraste, Xander, why were you barking at an empty-”

            “RATS!” Nan shrieked from the other room, before slamming the door behind them. “Don’t let them escape into the kitchens!”

            “Because closing the door wouldn’t help with that.” Lyara shuddered, swinging at the furry rodents.

            They were disgusting. Patchy and covered in dirt and waste from the stables, they were much larger than any normal rat, and easily twice as aggressive, snapping at their legs and feet as they fought, teeth bared when they weren’t trying to bite the trio.

            Xander had quickly gone to work on the infestation, audible snaps echoing throughout the stone chamber whenever he was successful in his hunt, and Gilmore was mirroring his sentiments with each slash of his sword.

            The skirmish was over in a matter of minutes, but it was still a messy one, the bodies of the oversized vermin strewn across the larder floor, Xander passing around to sniff each one, as if to confirm the deed. Blood was spattered over Gilmore’s chest plate and blade, and Lyara grimaced as she wiped some from the corner of her mouth.

            “I blame you for this,” Lyara huffed as she wiped more blood from her leather armor, trying not to smile through her glare.

            “Us? Perish the thought-”

            “You warriors and war-hounds trying to paint the cellar red,” she laughed finally, unable to contain her smile.

            “Well, we can’t all be rogues. There wouldn’t be any honest battles,” Gilmore shot back, sheathing his sword. Xander barked in agreement. But Lyara wasn’t listening. Her eyes had settled on the floor, taking in the sheer number and size of the vermin that Xander had uncovered. She shuddered to think of the damage that they could have caused, far more than Xander would ever dare, and again as to how they would have even gotten in in the first place. The kitchens were Nan’s castle, and Lyara would have been willing to testify to anyone that she watched over them with a greater vigor than Bryce did over all of Highever. The thought made her stomach drop.

            “Lyara?”

            “Nan would have never let these get it. Not on her watch of these kitchens. We must speak to Eadon about looking for holes or cracks in the foundation. And Iro. The dogs can take care of any others found in the castle.”

            “What if someone put them in there? A stable-boy jesting? Or the elves?”

            “The stable boys have been busy for days with Howe’s convoy and preparations for the march. They wouldn’t have had the time… None of the servants would. Same for the elves. I mean, did you see them shrieking? There is no way they would have put one rat in here, much less droves.”

            Gilmore shook his head, observing the carnage. “Slaying giant rats… It’s like the beginning of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell me.”

            “Indeed…” Lyara trailed off, unable to shake the pit in her stomach. “It’s as if-”

            “Are they gone?” Nan called, peering through a crack in the door, her brown eyes fearful.

            “Of course, Nan!” Lyara feigned hurt. “What do you take me for? This is hardly the first rat you had me slay.” She crossed the room to comfort the old woman as she had done so many times before. When she was young, and just starting her training with Fergus and Bryce, Nan would have her take care of stray rats in the kitchen as practice. Lyara had hated it at first, wanting to save every one, hiding them in the folds of her hand-me-down armor before releasing them outside. Nan had quickly discovered her ploy after she saw the same rat with the same red patch on its ear in the cellar three times.

            Lyara had cried when she had killed it, nearly discarding her blade altogether, but Bryce had stopped her. _“There is no joy in killing, pup. But sometimes, like all things, it must be done.”_

_“And you are now a hero of the kitchen,_ ” Nan cooed, drying the girl’s face. _“And you must remember that. Even heroes have to do things they don’t want to. Even heroes aren’t perfect. You will have to make difficult decisions young one, but those who can make those decisions will always go further than those who can’t.”_ All words that she carried with her.

            “You didn’t hide one on you somewhere?”

            “No, Nan,” she laughed. “Did you see them?”

            “I did, and I have no desire to see them again.”

            “You’ll have Xander to thank for their dispatch,” Lyara beamed, the mabari’s stubby tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled with excitement.

            “I suppose I do… Here dog, just don’t expect it in the future. And don’t tell anyone that I gave you these,” Nan offered the dog just a glimmer of a smile as she slipped him a handful of scraps.      

            “And you wonder why he always comes back to the larder,” Gilmore chuckled under a steely gaze from the woman.

            “Yes, well, your work is thanked. All three of you.” Nan nodded stiffly. “Now you two! Back to work!” And just as before, the elves were sent into a frenzy in the kitchens. Business as usual.

            “I believe I will be taking my leave then, especially if the warden-commander wishes to see me. Good day, my lady.” Ser Gilmore bowed to Lyara before offering a small nod to Nan and quickly exiting the cellar.

            “I think you scared him, Nan.”

            “Pah. He’s a knight. He shouldn’t fear an old woman.”

            “And yet you could get just about any person in this castle, soldier or servant to bend to you otherwise.”

            Nan said little to that, the sound of Xander scarfing down his treat instead filling the silence. She watched the dog with a soft interest, as if studying him.

            “Do you remember the story of the dog that bit?”      

“Of course, how could I forget? I begged you to tell me that story every night. _Before our fathers’ fathers came down from the mountains a warhound was born to the elder bitch of a tribal chief.”_

_Nan nodded approvingly. “They named him Hohaku and gave him everything. He grew up a fine, strong pup, destined to be the partner of the chief’s eldest son. But Hohaku grew prideful. The young hound became arrogant, taking food from his kin and warning them – in the way of dogs – that the chief’s family would punish them if they tried to attack him. Years passed, and the time for the chief’s son to take a war hound came closer. Hohaku’s pride swelled, and many people of the tribe came to the chief, quietly whispering of his dog’s bullying. With each complaint, the chief saw only Hohaku’s strength and pride, and sent his people away. But as his son grew, the chief watched more closely. The day might come when his boy’s life would depend on this dog. If the humblest of his people would not trust Hohaku, how could he?”_

_Nan’s eyes glazed over as she watched Xander, now laying loyally at the feet of the bastard Cousland, his head resting on her feet. Lyara tried to see what she was hiding in her face, but the old woman would not betray her emotions to the world. So, Lyara continued._

“ _When the day came, Hohaku sat proudly, waiting to be called. But the old chief chose Hohaku’s brother as his son’s hound. Hohaku was shamed, but felt no remorse. So great was his rage that he darted across the fire pit and bit the chief’s hand. The chief and his son struck at Hohaku, cursing him. The hound ran into the village, seeking shelter in the tents and kennels. The other dogs snapped at him, and the tribes people threw stones at him. Before the chief could reach him, the tribe had torn Hohaku apart.”_

Nan nodded solemnly as Lyara finished the tale, watching the pair intently. “You told this to Fergus and I every night before Bryce took his turn to see us. I assume that you have heard of his plans to march with Fergus and leave me to watch the keep.”

“Indeed, and I have the utmost faith in you. You have grown so much since the days that you were toddling around the castle. Even celebrating your 23rd-“

“24th name day,” Lyara smiled softly.

“24th, indeed.” Nan took Lyara’s hands in her own and sighed. “But I worry, and no matter what you say, I always will. Someone has to.” Her voice grew quiet, thin, and Lyara half expected her to start crying in the wake of everything. But she wouldn’t. Not Nan. She still had terror to inspire in any stable-boy who got it in their head to raid the kitchens.

So Lyara hugged her.

“Don’t worry, Nan. I share your fears, but they will not ruin me. Besides-” She drew back, smirking. “My brother and Bryce shall not be gone long. A stable-hand could cause more trouble in that time than I could even hope to.”

“Maker help us if that came to pass,” Nan sighed. “I should not keep you much longer. Lady Eleanor was awaiting you, and I have already kept you far longer than I should have. Andraste guide you in the coming days, Lyara.”

“And to you as well,” she bowed. “I shall hopefully see you for dinner tomorrow. I plan to help Fergus prepare for the march.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it greatly, as I have your help.”

Lyara nodded before heading to the door, Xander at her heels in an instant. Nan’s words had helped to comfort her doubts, but she still could not shake the thought that something was amiss, but they still had Eleanor to face.

“Shall we boy?”

Xander whined, his ears flattening to the back of his head.

“Me too, bud. Me too.”


	4. Lords, Ladies, and Liars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence/Gore warning. SPOILERS

“Ah! Lyara, back from the kitchens I hope?” Eleanor Cousland turned from her company to greet the rogue, a smile pulled tightly across her lips.

            “Of course. And Xander as well. Rat infestation,” Lyara shrugged. She could see Eleanor bristle in the wake of her comments and could only imagine the reprimand she would catch later. _Ladies do not tell guests of “infestations.”_ It was too much work to lie as to why she still had blood on some patches of her clothes.

            “I… see. Lyara, you know Lady Landra, and her son, Dairren, and her new Lady-in-Waiting, Iona.”

            “I do believe we have met… The Spring Salon, no? It is a pleasure, my lord and ladies.”

            “The pleasure is ours, Lady Lyara. Especially after my atrocious actions at Teryna Cousland’s ball. I’m glad we can meet under much better… circumstances.” Lady Landra blushed and bowed, Lyara’s confusing growing at her words.

            “I was quite… inebriated at the time of our introduction. I believe I said some things that were out of stature and hand…”

            “My mother tried to marry us,” Dairren piped in, abashed. “It was… quite the arrangement she had created. I do believe there was going to be a group of dancing mabari and a live dragon,” he laughed as his mother blushed a deeper shade of crimson. “I have to thank you as to declining her offer.”

            “Oh, hush now, Dairren. I’m sure she remembers.”

            And remember Lyara did. Vividly. The woman had been drunk beyond all understanding, and had practically thrown herself over Lyara, begging her to dance with her son. They had talked once earlier in the night, and apparently that was enough to insinuate true love, or at least a marriage contract. Dairren had ended his night in dragging his mother back to her room, while apologizing profusely. Lyara almost needed a drink after the experience herself. She had needed a lot of drinks that night, from Lady Landra’s pleas, to the stares at the youngest Cousland for not wearing a corset, the ball was far from what and where she wanted to be. She shuddered just thinking of it.

            “She should have accepted it. Maker knows she hasn’t looked at any others,” Eleanor scoffed. “You can’t keep waiting forever, you know.”

            “She’s a free spirit, Eleanor. Leave her as such. You were once as wild as she once upon a time. Just as I was, just as Iona was,” Landra laughed, her lady-in-waiting shying back. “She will find one soon enough.”

            “Or not at all—if the lady likes that…” Dairren trailed off, looking for approval.

            “In time, Eleanor,” Lyara replied flatly.

            “When you’re done wandering the countryside and exchanging childish messages with your nephew I suppose?”

            “Long after,” she shot back, unwavering.

            “As we all did,” Lady Landra interrupted, placing a gentle hand on Eleanor’s shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to retire until dinner tonight. Wonderful seeing you again, Lyara.”

            “And you as well, Lady Landra.” Lyara watched as the older woman and Iona disappeared down the corridor, their footsteps fading quickly into the stone.

            “I should get moving as well, especially with the march tomorrow. I heard you were looking for Fergus, I believe he is upstairs with Oriana and Oren. I think Oren was mentioning something about a sword. Or a knife… or something. Best wishes, Lady Lyara.”

            “And to you, Dairren. May the Maker watch over us all in the days to come.”

            “Indeed.” The young man stooped to scratch Xander for a moment before following in his mother’s footsteps down the corridor. _Most likely to the armory. Where I should be going. Not watching over the castle for-_

            “Lyara? I heard that Bryce has put you in charge of the grounds in his absence.”

            “He has.” There was no hiding the terseness in Eleanor’s voice, a tightness that made Lyara uneasy, moreso than she usually was around the woman. Lyara used to joke with Fergus that she was wound tighter than the bow that she shot. Lyara could see it in her face, the way her wrinkles seemed to stretch in such a way that she seemed older, stern, and ready to tear something apart at a moment’s notice. The last thing Lyara wanted was for it to be her.

            “Walk with me,” Eleanor commanded, strutting down the stone corridor.

            “But, Fergus-“

            “Your brother can wait. If there was a great hurry to fetch him, a servant would have been sent. Or a runner. Besides, he could use some more time with his family.”

            Lyara said little in response, only nodding to Eleanor’s sentiments. She still couldn’t read the woman, nor what she wanted, and didn’t want to risk a confrontation that would make the coming weeks more difficult. Eleanor had the ability to make or destroy her watch over Highever. Lyara much preferred the former.

            “There was much discussion prior to this march, between the both of us.”

            Lyara paused. “The both of you?”

            “The both of us,” Eleanor continued. “And while I am still not entirely sure as to how we came to such a conclusion, I want you to know that I will fully support your work and watch over Highever. I will be here as a source of knowledge and sup-”

            “Thank you.” Lyara smiled, earnestly. The older woman mirroring her actions after a second of stunned silence.

            “I had a speech prepared… words of wisdom…”

            “And you have imparted that wisdom, you and Bryce both, over the last two decades. And you will continue to do so, I am sure.”

            It was the closest thing that they had seen in warm moments in years, awkward, but heartfelt, genuine, even moreso given the circumstances. Heartfelt, and strategic. The two women would need to be on at least speaking terms in the coming weeks, and they both knew that. But somehow, Lyara knew that their talk was not intended on bringing a neutrality. It was out of respect, kindness, and perhaps a kinship? Or at least the closest thing to kinship that Lyara had felt from the woman.

            “Well then,” Eleanor clapped her hands together, a slight blush spreading over her cheeks. “I suppose I should let you go… Um… Speak to Fergus. I’m sure he’ll… wish to see you…”

            “Ah, yes. Of course. Definitely… I should be going, yes.” Lyara stuttered back, sidestepping the Teyrna in an uncharacteristic display of awkwardness and stuttered movements.

            “I will see you later in the evening? For dinner?” It was the first time Lyara had ever heard her speak those words to her, the shock almost making her trip again.

            “Yes.” It was all she could think to respond with, and she would curse herself for not coming up with something cleverer, but it worked. As the pair walked away, they both wore smiles on their faces.

And Lyara’s only continued to grow.

            “Auntie Lyara!” The jubilant cries of Oren bounced off the walls of Fergus’s room as the young boy flung himself into Lyara, nearly sending them tumbling to the ground.

            “Oren! My favorite knight in the castle!”

            “Sister! You wound me!” Fergus laughed, shooting a sly smile at the pair.

            “Oh, I _wound_ you? The heir to the Cousland estate is wounded by mere words? Oren! You might just have to watch over the caste instead of your daddy!”

            “Dad! Dad did you hear that?! Auntie said that-”

            “Yes, yes I did little one. Don’t worry. You’ll have your day soon enough.” Fergus watched on with a gentle grin, his arm still firmly rooted around his wife’s waist. The woman in question simply laughed at her son’s antics, trying to contain her amusement behind a shaking hand while Oren and Lyara gathered themselves.

            “Lady Oriana.” Lyara bowed when she was finally able to shake the tears of laughter from her eyes. “It is good to see you and Oren again. You must visit more often, keep my brother in check.”

            “What, did I miss the raven that said it was Pick-on-Fergus day?”

            “That is every day dear brother. But really, please do visit.”

            “You do enjoy having a partner in crime sister. Still turning my young boy against me I see, even now. You-”

            “Wound me. We know dad,” Oren piped up, much to the amusement of all in attendance. “But didn’t you hear, Auntie? We do get to visit more! We’re staying while Daddy is off with Grandpa and I heard that you get to watch over us while that’s happening! Is it true? Is it?”

            “It is true little one. It is…” Lyara smiled anxiously, Fergus countering her hesitance with a grin of his own.

            “Indeed son, and she’ll be fantastic in doing so.”

            “Can we see a dragon, Auntie? Will a dragon come?”

            “Oren! Dragons _eat_ people. You don’t want to see a dragon,” Oriana chided, shaking her head.

            Lyara shot the young boy a sly glance before kneeling to his height. “If we see a dragon, I’ll promise you this. We’ll chase it off at run through the castle! ARRRRRR,” Lyara scooped the boy up in her arms, the young lad quick to cling to her shoulders in a haphazard piggy-back ride as she ran a lap around the room, Oren screeching out his best ‘battle cry.’

            “See? Everything will be fine, Oriana. Your son and sister-in-law will keep all of Highever safe. Brave warriors, the both of them.”

            Lyara paused, letting Oren slide from her shoulders and back into the arms of his mother. “Thank you… But I will not lie, brother. I would much rather be marching with you in the coming days.”

            “You? Would much rather march through the mud and rains and sleep on a cot in the mud and rain and sleet and-”

            “Alright, alright you’ve made your point, but it doesn’t mean that I have to like it… I will miss you brother.”

            “All of us will,” Oriana mused, lacing her hand with Fergus’s. Watching the sentiment only made things harder, sadder. It brought back their first meeting. It had been a ball, as there was always a ball, and always a noble game, and there she was: the daughter of an Antivan merchant, dressed in silks and satins of coral and silver, and utterly lost on the floors on the great hall. Fergus had happened to stumble upon her in trying to escape a rather… forward young woman, and he was smitten, they man that had once proclaimed he would never take a woman. Less than a year later, they were wed, and a few years after, Oren. The rest? That was history, and here it was, all leaving again.

            “Indeed. I’ll be counting the days.” The door to the room clicked open, Eleanor and Bryce slipping in to join the family. And there they stood, the Cousland household in full, a brief moment before their separation. And there they stayed. Together. Talked, and laughed, and hugged and cried and for a moment, the sinking feeling in Lyara’s stomach dissipated. And after they talked and hugged and laughed and cried, they rode, as they did to celebrate, flying over the lands with a thundering of hooves to forget, to feel free, if only for a moment. And while it was unspoken, they all secretly hoped that the moment would’ve lasted much longer.

            They rode, and feasted and drank and prepared until they saw Fergus off on his march ahead, and then continued their actions. And in that time, Lyara would have sworn that it did. That even though Bryce would be leaving with the sunrise, and that neither he, nor Fergus would return for weeks, and that she would be responsible, Andraste help her, things were alright. Highever was alright. All of Ferelden was right. She was right. And as she laid her head down, for a second, she would have thought that there was no trouble. No strange men in the castle. No call for an army, for war. That she wouldn’t need to fight, she wouldn’t have to. _That she wasn’t a bastard_.

 

But, as with all dreams, she would eventually have to-

 

            “WOOF!” Xander’s thundering bark ripped Lyara from her sheets, shaking all inclinations of sleep from her mind and body. The mabari was tense, hackles raised, and snarling at the door with a savagery that was usually reserved for those that threatened her or Oren.

            “Xander! Xander, heel! Xander!” She whispered harshly, the dog unrelenting in his posture or barking, instead increasing his intensity and urgency.

            “What’s gotten into you?” The words were slow, calculated, just as her movements were in taking the blades she owned from their place by her bed. “What’s out there?” But she didn’t speak mabari. She only knew that whatever was happening wasn’t good.

            Between the skull-rattling barks and growls, the sound of a frantic knocking could be heard at the door. “Lady Lyara! Lady Lyara, please!” Lyara leapt toward the door and threw it open to the sight of a young guard, disheveled and wild. He held no weapon in his hand, and the plume on his helmet was disheveled and crooked.

            “Lady Lyara! Thank Andraste! It’s-”

            She would never forget the look on his face. One of utter shock, surprise. Pain. He was just a boy. Just a scared little boy a few years younger than she. And now he was a dead boy with an arrow through his neck, staring her in the face as his body slipped to the floor, red dripping from his lips.

_Lady Lyara_

            And they were on her in an instant. Two men with armor and swords, neither bearing shields or crests of any house. Xander howled and threw himself at the first, mercilessly snapping at the man’s throat while Lyara danced with the other, stepping in and out of his slashes and returning her own until he joined the young man on the floor, moaning and writhing. He was much better off than the man he came with, Xander not interested in the mercy that his master held. Neither held a bow. There were more.

            90 seconds. It seemed like a lifetime, but she knew it was 90 seconds with the door closed, Xander guarding it. 90 seconds to slip on the leather armor that bared no name, no crest, no distinguishing features. 90 seconds where anything could have been happening outside.

            The next time she threw open the door, it was a similar sight, except the arrow facing her wasn’t going through someone’s neck.

            “Lyara!” Eleanor, the woman wielding her signature bow. “Lyara thank the Maker- It’s Howe’s men. They’ve attacked the castle! We have to find Bryce, and Oren and Orianna… Everyone. We have to find- Have you seen them?”

            “No… I just- I just got up. These men- They’re Howe’s? That’s… That traitor! He knew the castle would be empty with Fergus’s absence! He knew we would be open to attack!”

            “That doesn’t matter now. We have to find the others, anyone we can. The treasury. We’ll have supplies there too. We have to find help-”

            A strangled scream tore through the corridor, quickly muffled in the chaos of the night. “We have to go now.”

            First was Fergus’s room, and Lyara wished it could have been the last. Or never. The door was already open when they got there, the lock smashed off and laying in pieces on the floor. How she prayed in that moment. How she prayed that the room would be empty. That they had escaped. That they had been left alone. But war and deception held no place for prayer, and Lyara’s hope quickly turned to horror.

            Eleanor gasped in the background, and mumbled something. Repeated it over and over. She could have been crying but Lyara didn’t know. She wasn’t listening. She was only looking at them. They were sprawled out on the rug, Oren a few feet from his mother, their eyes wide and unblinking, trained on the ceiling. Their faces were pale, thin, lifeless. Someone had taken the life from them, and in that moment, they had taken it from Lyara too. They had taken the life and the air from her lungs, her voice, her tears, her scream. All of it. All she could do was crawl to her nephew in shock. Run her fingers through his soft brown locks. Close his bright blue eyes. The same eyes that were shining hours before at the thought of fighting a dragon. She would never forget those eyes.

            “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill them all,” Lyara’s voice shook, a low whine from Xander accompanying her threat. The dog nuzzled the small body in her arms, equally as confused and shocked at its lack of life when it was playing with him before. “I’ll watch them bleed.” Her voice continued to shake, raw and hollow, but the tears wouldn’t come. They wouldn’t fall in her fury.

            “We have to keep moving, Lyara. We… we can’t help them. There’s nothing more we can do for them.”

            There was. There was so much more. There was honor and respect and grief. But Eleanor was right. Those were the things that got them killed. Those were the things that would get them killed, and no one in the party wanted to join them. They had to find the other survivors.

            There was a torch outside the door, burning with the other flames around the castle halls. It was dying. The walls were buckling under the damages, and the fire kept eating away everything she had known.

            “Lyara?”

            “They will not take any more from them.”

            The torch was thrown into her brother’s room before the door was shut, Lyara’s last look inside yielding the peaceful scene of a boy sleeping in his mother’s arms. It may have taken time, but it was all she could offer. Her eyes burned, from the scene or the smoke she did not know, but as Eleanor said, they had to keep moving, had to keep going. They didn’t have any more time to spare.

            Xander sprinted ahead of the ground, scouting and leading them through the halls of the castle, his upbringing and instinct guiding the war-hound faithfully. Almost too faithfully as another guard ran screaming through the corridor, straight into Lyara.

            “We have to run! We have to get out of here-”

            “We have to fight! For our home!”

            The man blinked, the haze of panic slowly sifting from his eyes, replaced by a hardened fear, and a renewed clarity. He nodded, shaky, but nodded in response before looking for a weapon. “My lady…”

            “Take this.” Lyara shoved one of her own blades into his hands, the leather grip taken with a shaky stature. “Try not to stab yourself. It’s not a spear. Hold it- Not like that! Here. Thumb here, fingers here, face the blade out. Stab out or down. It’s not a sword or a lance, you can’t swing it around.”

            The man nodded again, taking in her advice before moving behind Xander as the group moved to the Cousland treasury. They hadn’t made it more than 30 paces when an arrow buried itself into the wall next to Lyara’s head with a hollow thunk. The man behind it was flanked by four others, two bearing shields with the Howe crest. The men charged, clanging their swords against the metal, Xander and the recently armed man rushing to meet them. Eleanor immediately retaliated, letting her own arrows fly in response, hitting one of the men that dared to attack them.

            Lyara cursed, wishing that she had another blade to fill her hand, or at least half of the tools she had kept in her arsenal. Throwing knives? Gone. Smoke covers? Gone. Traps and poisons? Just as lost. And she had decided to lend out one of her knives. A good cause? Of course, but it wasn’t going to help her case. It also wasn’t going to help the knight she slid behind that ended up sporting a knife in his back. She didn’t watch as he went down. She didn’t want to. It would be easier to believe that he wasn’t dead.

            Unfortunately, as the man in armor dropped, so did her only weapon, leather grip was ripped from her hands as her enemy fell. At the same time, another arrow buried itself into the other rogue leaving the archer, and the knight, and to be honest, she didn’t know what side the fire came from. But the fire kept coming, another arrow whizzing past her ear.

            “Lyara!” Eleanor called from behind her. “Catch!” The longbow was flung in desperation, Lyara barely catching the polished wood before whipping it around her.

            _Arrows. Arrows. You need arrows._ Over and over it played, like a mantra, until she pulled the red fletching from a nearby body. _Okay now notch it. Just like she taught you._ Eleanor had once shown her how to shoot. She had deemed it necessary before Bryce gave her a blade. Sort of. Bryce had sent her to work with one of the men on the wall, Eleanor watching at a distance for days until she had taken over her lessons at the insistence that “he wasn’t doing it right.”

            _“Breathe slowly, deeply. Feel it in your lungs. See the arrow. Where you want it to go. See the bow and how it moves with each breath.”_

It had been the closest thing they had ever had to mother-daughter bonding in her entire life.

            _“Now… let it fly.”_

            THUNK

            It was a low sound. A hollow sound. A dead sound. Just like the man that fell from the shot. At the same time, another clang echoed at the other knight fell.

            “Are you alright?”

            “Let’s go.” Lyara tossed the bow back to Eleanor before pulling her blade back and wiping the blood from her face.

            “Not far. We’re here.” Eleanor guided her, Lyara kicking the door through, already weak from the fire and damage it had sustained. _Please not another. Please. Don’t let them be here._ There was no one inside. Nor any evidence that someone had been. Just supplies.

            “Take it, Lyara.”

            It was a beautiful longsword, polished and shining. Rarely used, only for ceremonies. It had probably never seen the fires of battle, and neither had she. It fit perfectly in her hand, shorter than every sword she had ever worked with, not much longer than any of her daggers, but balanced perfectly. Under any other circumstance, she would have never seen this sword, much less wield it. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance, now would it ever be. Not ever again.

            Next was the armor rack. She wouldn’t have time to take everything, it would weigh her down, take too much time to put on. But she took pieces. Bracers, leg guards, and boots, the pieces she had needed to replace anyways. Once again, not under these circumstances. Then the chests. Healing potions, throwing knives, an assortment of tools any learned rogue could use. But unlike a learned rogue, she wasn’t prepared to take them all. The potions. The knives. That was all she took. And then they were gone, the room going up in flames behind them. It pained her to watch it go, she would have saved it all, but there was no water, no end in sight. And if they were to save anything, it had to be the people.

            Then there were the soldiers. Always more soldiers. Always more men. Like a storm they flowed it, infinite waves of steel and screaming. They just _kept coming_. Screams of terror filled the castle, children and adults. Servants and guards. Knights. Men and women. Screams of the living and the dead and the fire and the chaos that was consuming it all. It kept coming.

            Eleanor had resorted to pulling arrows from the bodies they passed, and they passed many, many more as they ran through the halls. Nan, the elven servants, the scholars, Granok, the knight lieutenant, Leros, a watchman. The men that were soon to leave, those who had promised to stay behind and protect the walls under her guidance. So many dead. So many gone. But she did not have time to grieve. Did not have time to languish. She had to move, or she would join them.

            “Bryce wasn’t there. He hasn’t been there. We have to find him,” Eleanor insisted, Lyara right beside her. That they did.

            “Teyrna Cousland! Lady Lyara! Thank the Maker!” Another hoard had been cleared, but this time, they recognized a friendly face.

            “Ser Gilmore!”

            “Howe’s men-”

            “We know. Every corner of the castle. Have you seen Bryce?” Eleanor shook.

            “I saw the Teyrn and the Gray Warden, Duncan… They were looking for you. They said they were going to the servants’ quarters-”

            “The back exit. Of course. They would be expecting us to be there.”

            “Indeed. We have been trying to hall. You need to go. Go now. Find the Teyrn.”

            “Ser Gilmore…”

            “I’ll see you soon, Lyara. Be safe.”

            “No- We can’t just go- We can fight! We can help you here!”

            “No. You have to go.” Gilmore took her arm in an iron grip. “You have to protect them. You have to survive above all else my friend. You have to go. Go, go now!”

            “Maker watch over you Gilmore.”

            “And to you Lad- Lyara.”

            And so they did everything that Lyara was raised not to. They ran. The guard had stayed behind with Ser Gilmore and the other castle staff. It was Eleanor, Xander, and Lyara now. And they just kept running. They ran through arrows and knives. Steel and fire. Traps, poison, fire, chaos. _Death._ And still, they ran. They ran as castle Cousland of Highever crumbled around them and smoke billowed up into the sky and the world seemed to burn. They ran through bodies dead and dying, made pincushions of arrows or sheaths for steel. They ran through the noise and the screaming and the fear and the horror that would ring in her skull. They ran until they could run no further, and then flung themselves into the servants’ quarters, wasting no time in barricading the door. They almost didn’t notice him.

            “So busy, pup. As always…”

            “Bryce!”

            He was doubled over, a hand clamped over his abdomen as he writhed on the stone floor. The great Teyrn of Highever reduced to flesh and blood, dying on the floors of his own castle. There was so much blood and it was draining so fast and his face was so pale and his breath was so shallow-

            “I thought I was never going to see you. Lateness doesn’t… doesn’t suit you pup.”

            “Bryce…” Eleanor was already cradling her husband, and Lyara was soon at his side, taking his hand in her own.

            “No… No no no no no not you too. Just- Just hold on. We can get you out of here. We can take the exit. We can make it.” _You have to protect them._

            “Pup… we both know that I can’t even stand-”

            “Then I’ll carry you. Please. _Please_ don’t do this.” The tears were coming now, blurring her vision, muddling all the colors but there was so much _red_.

            “Lyara…”

            “No!”

            “You have to escape. You and Eleanor have to escape. Duncan was… I sent Duncan, to find you. Speak of the Maker…”

            The warden was behind them with his words, grim, blood-spattered, and of few words.

            “My lord…”

            “It seems they found us first, Duncan. I told you she would… Would…”

            “Don’t speak, Bryce,” Eleanor pleaded. “Save your energy.”

            “N-no. You need to know this. You need to both go, now. _Now_.”

            “No. Bryce, no. I’m not leaving,” Lyara growled through the tears. The _pain._

            “And neither am I, love. Never. I have lived my life, and it was a long and beautiful one. If it is to end, I will end it as I began: in the fight, with my beloved at my side… Lyara, you must go. You must warn Fergus, you must… You must…” Eleanor shuddered, tears now dripping from her face. But she was a lady. A warrior. She was powerful. She was composed. “You must bring Howe to justice. You must fight.”

            “Be the hero that we know you will be pup.”

            Lyara could have cried. Could have screamed. But she was a rogue. She wore a mask. She was a warrior. A lady.  A bastard, but a Cousland. By name. This man had named her one of his own and it was her duty to uphold that name. She may not have been a true Cousland, but she would not let her Teyrn and Teyrna down.

            “I will bring Howe to justice. I will see it done if it is the last thing I do on this earth.”

            “I know pup, _we_ know.”

            The words were lodged in her throat. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe-“

            “Duncan, take her. I… hah… rescind my earlier apprehention. She will make the finest warden Thedas has ever seen.” Bryce laughed. “I know it.”

            “As… as you wish my lord.”

            “Go pup…”

            The door was creaking. Pounding. Burning. It wouldn’t hold much longer.

            “Go and show the world all that you are. Go be their hero.”

            Lyara nodded, eyes drying, hardening. Steely. But for a second, they dared to soften. Dared to show the emotion she worked desperately to hide.

            “I love you both… so very much.”

            “We know, Lyara.” Eleanor smiled. “We know.”

            “We have to go. Now!” Duncan ordered, Lyara finally scrambling to her feet to follow the man. Eleanor followed them, closing the hatch behind the warden as they slipped out through the crawlspace, and barricading it with the chests inside.

            And they ran. They crawled through the dank, muddy tunnels, clawed their way through ducts, let the mud mingle with the blood on their faces and armor. And they ran. Ran through the heaving breaths and the coughing and the smoke and the fire and the death. Ran from it all until they reached the starlit moors of Highever, outside the castle. And they kept running.

“Don’t look back,” Duncan warned, urging her forward. But she did. She had to. And she saw what she was running from. Castle Cousland, with flaming towers billowing smoke into the clear night sky. The stars watching over screams of terror and pain as Howe’s men ransacked the place she used to call home. Bodies and possessions were flung over the castle walls or set on fire. Arrows flew from the towers to the ground below. A horse screamed, tearing across the land, its mane alight in the dark night. Everything she had ever known, burning, dying, gone. Xander whined in the darkness, swallowing back a howl to answer his burning kin. Lyara bit her lip to prevent doing the same.

And they ran.

           


	5. Whispers and Wardens

            It had been nine days since Lyara had watched her home go up in flames. Nine days of marching through the wilds with only hours of sleep and minimal company. They had little, the clothes on their backs, their weapons, and the few things that Duncan and Lyara had scavenged in the halls or picked up on the road. They couldn’t take the main roads, or horses, they would have been picked off in the first couple days, and even the wilds proved dangerous. Bandits, hired swords, creatures in the woods, they were all fair game to slit the party’s throats if they got the chance. They had been safe thus far, but Lyara wasn’t about to let her guard down. Not then, not ever. Nine days of running, scrapping, shuffling, and trying not to collapse from the exhaustion of it all. It was getting to all of them.

            Xander had stopped whining after the third day, realizing that they were not going around, and that shelter was nowhere in sight. He soon relented to padding next to Lyara, the rogue absentmindedly petting the dog’s head as they walked, soothing the both of them. Duncan said even less, only urging the group on when they tired, or calling times to stop and start in the morning and night. He had mentioned that they would be traveling on foot, and that it would take days to get to Ostagar, but beyond that, he said little. It was not a secret that Lyara did not wish to speak, and even if she had, it was unlikely that either of them would bother expending the energy. They moved at a torturous pace, one fit for hardened paths and forced marching, one that would call mutiny in the ranks of any group of soldiers, no matter their commander.

            But they weren’t marching. Not really. They were running. And they were dying with each step, because they were still close enough to the Cousland castle. Only two days, maybe three on horseback. They were still close enough to be hunted down by Howe, and it wasn’t a chance that Lyara was willing to take, especially not now. They were in no shape to fight. No supplies. She was down to three throwing knives and her blades thanks to a bear attack and bandit traps, and they did have the energy to spare. They had to keep running. But for how long? Even if they made it to Ostagar… _If._ She was still a threat to Howe, and to his legitimacy.

            _Damn if. Damn it all. When. When! I swear to Andraste it will be when. I will have your head on a spike, Rendon Howe, and nothing will stop me._

            Xander whined, sensing his master’s distress, and leaned against her side. “Yeah, bud. We’ll get em. We’ll get them all,” she breathed, the words lost in the forest’s noise. The exhaustion, the rage, it twisted the words into a growl, an oath. She would kill Howe if it was the last thing she did. After all, she had the last nine days to plan how she would do it, and she was guaranteed many, many more.

            If Duncan had heard her promise, he didn’t respond. Lyara was grateful for that. Another item to add to the list beyond taking her from Highever. Even now, she could admit that she wouldn’t have survived without the warden. She would have never left the castle, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have made it past the first day. Not on her own. Howe’s men would have found her. The woods would have killed her. She was a rogue, but she had been contained to Highever. She was a spring child. She hadn’t seen war. The only battles Lyara had ever seen were staged, practice fights to train her in combat and strategy. Games of chess with fake lances and wood swords to learn. Fergus and Eleanor would stand on one side of the battlements, and Bryce… Bryce.

            Lyara sighed, swallowing the lump in her throat. She couldn’t cry. Not now. _She wouldn’t_. She had kept it quiet, minimalistic during the second day of slogging through the woods. She had remembered Bryce. Remembered a walk they had taken through a forest trail. Their first horseback ride with a beautiful bay mare. She had let the tears run down her face, if only for a few minutes. No sniffling. No heaving. Just quiet, salty stains across her cheeks. If Duncan had noticed that, he didn’t mention it either. But, as with everything else the last week had brought her, Lyara eventually saw it away, slipping into the marshes and weeds, just like the rest of her.

            “Hold. We can make camp here for tonight. There, on that outcropping. We should at least be away from the water if it rains.”

            Lyara nodded, slogging her way to the grassy knoll. They had spent the last four days in a valley, her boots soaked completely through. She had taken off her stockings ages ago, in a weak attempt to find some piece of dry clothing. They had already been rained on, twice, and Duncan still didn’t advise lighting fires. They were in the conditions she had mocked Fergus about before his departure, the same suffering. Fergus…

Lyara wondered if he was marching through the same hell. If he had received news of the Cousland falling. It would probably take days, if not weeks, and that would be if they knew where he was. Lyara didn’t even know who “they” were. There probably wasn’t anyone left at the castle, not unless Ser Gilmore and some of his men made it, but they were in the main hall. Howe’s men had it surrounded. There was no way… No…

She had to stop. Had to stop herself from picturing his face, they crooked grin he wore when hearing that Duncan was there for him. It should have been Gilmore. Or Dairren. Oh Maker, Dairren. And Lady Landra and Iona and Nan and the names just kept coming. The faces. A new one flashed before her eyes with each shallow breath, each heartbeat. It was too much, too-

“We’ll break at dawn.” Lyara looked up, the warden commander taking a seat beside her. “I’ll take the first watch.”

“It’s… it’s not even dark yet. Shouldn’t we keep moving?” Lyara questioned, finally realizing her surroundings. The sun was lower in the sky, but it was far from when they usually stopped for the night.

“You are tired. Your hound is tired. I am tired. And I believe that we are far enough from Highever to take a moment to breathe. Besides, we cannot allow ourselves to succumb to exhaustion before we are at least relatively close to our destination.”

Lyara nodded, staring off into the distance, her eyes glazed over. Xander had curled up next to her, his head in Lyara’s lap. Lyara stroked the dog absentmindedly, her mind spinning in circles, wandering an endless expanse. The castle. Its inhabitants. Highever. Howe. Oddly enough, Duncan would not let these actions lay.

“Does he have a name?”

“Hm?”

“Your warhound. Does he have a name?”

“Oh, yes. Xander.” Lyara replied, Duncan watching the brindle dog fondly before scratching his head.

“Protector of men.”

“Yes. And women. And children.”

“It is a fine name for a fine mabari. When did you come across him?”

Lyara watched the dog, a sad smile upon her face. “He was a gift from my brother. The runt of the litter. Joke’s on them, he ended up growing to be the biggest.”

“I had wondered. He is rather large for his breed. Most kennel masters and breeders would pray for a hound like him.”

“Yeah… There were offers from nobles and the like staying at the castle.” Xander’s head perked up at Lyara’s words. He knew she was speaking about him, and with pride. It may have been an awful hike, but he was pleasing his master, and that was enough to make his tail wag under her praise. “And to think he was the runt of the litter…”

“A surprise, to say the least then.”

“The best kind,” Lyara cooed, before pausing. “Why are you asking me this? Why make me talk now?”

“You wished to speak with me about the wardens. And-”

“And?”

“I’ve noticed that you do not rest during our brief nights. You instead keep your dog trained on me, or watch yourself.”

“I mean, one rogue to another, and, as a certified bastard-”

“I understand your concern. I had hoped to ease your fears.”

“Oh.”

“But… I can also see that you were trained well. Lockpicking, stealth… Your combat skills are incredible for a woman of your age. May I ask how?”

“Practice.” Lyara grunted, her eyes still trained ahead. “And… the help of a few odd ones making their way through Highever. I learned tricks and practiced them.”

“The rumor was that you practiced on your brother.”

Lyara snorted, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I suppose word travels. Although, I’m sure the stories are much more exciting.” Duncan was right though. She had terrorized the castle in her youth, slipping through locked doors, rearranging chests, hiding possessions of those she didn’t like. Fergus had often taken the brunt of the blame, at least, until Bryce realized that his clumsy, clunky, _loud_ sword-swinging son lacked the graces and dexterity to do what he was being blamed for.

“It does. And I’m sure they’re quite accurate.”

“Enough to the point that you would have taken me instead of Ser Gilmore?”

“I would have happily recruited the both of you.”

“I gathered that… It seems the wardens are short on fresh meat these days. Is it really so much of a death sentence that they all hate you so?” Duncan flinched, his face twisting in a contorted scowl. “Easy, I’m just trying to figure out what sort of mess I’m getting myself into. I know that wardens have a shorter life span, but… why the disgust with them?”

Duncan sighed. “I suppose you would have found out eventually. In short, the wardens were exiled from Ferelden years ago. The old king, Arland Theirin, had a feud with his cousin, Sophia Dryden. She was a warden, and a rival to the throne. In short, the game claimed us as a victim.”

“Ah. One of many lost.”

“Indeed.”

The pair fell silent again, the sun beginning to sink beyond the tree line. Xander had started to snore softly, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, breaking apart the uneasy silence that had settled between the two rogues.

“So how did you get tangled up in the wardens?” Lyara hummed, finally turning to face the man. “Are you the secret Arl of some land in Ferelden? Or a secondborn?”

“Not in the slightest,” Duncan huffed, scratching his beard. It had grown shaggy in their travels, his dark hair collecting dirt and mud, as Lyara’s had. He was older, not nearly the age of Bryce and Eleanor, but old enough. Late 40’s, maybe even mid 50’s. The sun had tanned his skin, and wrinkled his face, although, his work could have easily done the same. Dark brown eyes twinkled past the roughness, knowing, yet secretive, as if daring her to guess what he was hiding. The mark of a weathered and experienced rogue.

“I was born in Highever, actually. My father was a carpenter. We didn’t stay long. I spent more time in the Free Marches, and Orlais. When my parents passed, I stayed on the streets of Val Royeaux. There was plenty to steal, and plenty of lords to steal from.”

Lyara was silent, suddenly embarrassed at her actions. She had lived a life of comfort, and here was her newly-made commander bred from the streets of Orlais. She could have easily been in his place.

“I had snuck into an inn one night. An eve of a grand ball. The city was full to bursting with riches and the rich. I saw an opportunity that I couldn’t pass up. I had broken into a room, and tried to steal a ring. A ring of all things. But… its owner came back in before I could leave. We fought, but he wouldn’t give it up. I had a knife to his throat, and he still wouldn’t let it go. And… in the skirmish, I wounded him.”

Duncan quieted, the night air cooling around them, his breath visible in the new moonlight. “As he lay bleeding out, he thanked me. As you can imagine, I was confused, and horrified. Shocked. I would later learn that my victim was a gray warden.”

“You… you killed a warden?”

“The wardens will take anyone. Or in my case, conscript anyone they see fit for duty.”

“So you were conscripted.”

“Yes. I had initially refused an offer made to me by the previous warden commander of Fereldan. But she was insistent. She came to my hanging and invoked the right of conscription. I didn’t have much a choice after that.”

“And then?”

“That is a story for another time. Rest, Lyara. We have many days ahead to entertain our minds.”

Lyara had little to respond with after that, and she expected that Duncan didn’t want her to. He had entertained her with silence, and it seemed only fitting to do the same. He had said it himself: there would be plenty of time to entertain her questions of the wardens, and her traveling companion. And perhaps, now she could truly rest. He had been partially correct in that, she had been watching him, but no so much in distrust as curiosity. He was still a mystery to her, and studying the warden was much better than the alternative places her mind could wander, and now she had more to study.

They had their similarities, she could see that now. Yes, their roots were dramatically different, but like Lyara, Duncan was an outcast of his own. An orphan on the streets of Val Royeaux. That was either the best stroke of luck he had ever seen in his entire life, or the greatest curse that could have ever befallen him. She would have to ask him of it, of Orlais. Lyara had only heard about it in stories. Of Bryce, and his role in the war between it and Fereldan. She knew little past the wild culture and flamboyant nature of the land, and wanted to paint a better picture of it, especially if there was the off-chance that she would see it now. She could see anywhere now… Well, if the wardens allowed her to go. If she survived the joining… And if what Duncan said was true, if she survived the blight.

 _Damn if._ Lyara silently cursed, her fingers curling into fists. She would not, could not make it this far-

She was thinking in circles again. They were making more progress in their march than she was in her mind. Again. And they weren’t even moving. Lyara sighed, her eyelids heavy, laden with the day and the thought of the days to come. Xander was already snoring, a deep rumble in the dog’s chest that hummed through her own body. How she wished that she could sleep like that. Even with the loss of time to do, Lyara still couldn’t make herself rest on command. Not without the events playing over and over again in her mind.

_“I love you both, so very much.”_

She didn’t even know where the words came from. She had never expressed such a state in her life before then. Ever. And then there was Eleanor, saying she knew. Eleanor, of all people. Granted, she could have been speaking for Bryce, but he was able to get out his own pieces. Love? Where did the thought come from?

_I suppose… living with people for 23 years would probably foster some sort of attachment. And of-_

“Sleep Lyara,” Duncan commanded from behind her. He always seemed to know everything. It was maddening. Lyara knew that he knew. Well, the part of him _knowing_ wasn’t the problem. It was his silence, or lack thereof on whatever subject he saw fit. If Lyara didn’t know any better, she would have assumed him some sort of mage.

_But mages can’t read minds… Rogues can read body language but that’s just-_

“Your hound is getting more rest than you. Sleep.” Again, with the predictions.

 _As you command, king Duncan._ Yet for all her silent grumbling, Lyara was secretly hoping for sleep. And as she hoped, she listened to the sound of Xander’s snores, felt the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, and ever so slowly, drifted off to sleep. 

 

 

 


	6. Welcome to Ostagar

They continued their travels for weeks after that night in the forest, but at a better pace, and a better mood. Duncan had finally deemed it safe enough to light fires in the night after they hadn’t seen any trace of Howe or his men. They still woke up early in mornings, and waited until late into the night to end their day, but it was easier now. Lighter. Xander stopped dragging his paws in the morning, and Lyara began to capitalize on her time with the warden commander.

She learned about Orlais, Val Royeaux, of the Free Marches, and Tevinter, and all of the cities that Duncan knew of. She learned about the history of the wardens, what they did, who they really were, everything save for the details of the joining. No matter how she worded her questions or prodded the man, she could not get so much as a breath from him regarding the initiation she would undergo. But even still, she continued to learn. She learned about Ostagar, the Kokari Wilds, the woods and plains and swamps and mountains they walked through. She had seen nothing save the lands of Highever her entire life, and she was finally able to see the world. Not only that, but she was finally willing to see it.

She learned of the tales that stretched beyond Ferelden. The traders of Antiva, the magisters of Tevinter, the Qunari or Par Vollen. She burrowed her way into the deep roads to learn more of the darkspawn and the dwarves, and raced over the moors to find the Dalish. The days were filled with new lands and rich histories, far beyond her own. They were filled with heroes of old, and villains even older. Of kings and queens and highborns and bastards, and for a time, she could lose herself in Duncan’s teachings under the merciless sun. And when his lessons baited in words grew old, he taught her the ways of the sword.

She could pick locks faster now, cleaner. Her aim was more accurate with each knife she threw. Her attacks were no longer brutal and savage hacks at an enemy (in recent times, trees), but calculated, timed efforts, perfectly coordinated to end the dance of blades that she started with her as the victor. She didn’t stumble in the woods as she walked, not anymore. No, she was as swift as the winds that carried them, nimble as the halla that glided over the fields, and as silent as the wolves that hunted in the night. She may have called herself a rogue in the towered walls of Highever, but now, she could boast the skills of one.

“You have learned much in the past few weeks,” Duncan praised Lyara one early morning. The sun hadn’t even graced the horizon of its presence, the sky still a rich blanket of purples and blues speckled with graceful strokes of stars.

“I’ve had a good teacher,” Lyara nodded in the darkness, Xander padding along beside her. “And I hope I can repay him for his efforts.”

“If I wanted your payment, I would have taken it.”

“Did you just make a joke?”

Duncan said nothing, but a small smile curled upward under the man’s beard. It had grown long and scraggy in their time on the road, but even still, Lyara could see his lips upturned, the faintest white streak of his teeth barely contained.

“Did you, Duncan, warden commander of Ferelden, just make a joke? After all these days of serious training and the gruff-old-man act, make a joke?”

He still said nothing, but the faint chuckle that slipped its way over the hills spoke volumes. Soon enough, Lyara found herself smiling, laughing along with him in the twilight. It was a foreign sound, a foreign feeling, but she was grateful for it. Another thing to add to her list. She knew that Duncan had been keeping her busy as to distract her, to continue to distract her. He knew what it was like to lose family. Lyara wondered if someone had done something similar for him, or not. She wasn’t sure what would have happened to her had she not left with the commander.

 _Howe would have found you… No. You would have walked right to him and would have been slaughtered._ The thought came quickly, but not harshly. It was an internal scolding, the mocking of a child with, a green boy, one with thoughts of war before he had even worked with a blade. She was a green child. She had not seen war. She would have gotten herself killed. At least, she would have then.

_I will not make that mistake. I swear to you._

She didn’t know who the promise was going to, but it resounded within her, drawing another comfort to the dull ache that still sat in her chest. It had faded in the past weeks, but was still far from leaving her. Perhaps, it never would. Regardless, Lyara knew it would serve her in the coming days. Duncan had said that Ostagar would be upon them any day now. She would have to be ready.

\----------

“There it is,” Duncan pointed out over the hill, a crumbling bridge set over a high sun in the distance. Dust and smoke curled around the ancient pillars, the structure appearing as if it would collapse any moment, and the land beyond it looked just as harsh and unforgiving. It felt like a dream, a haze, as if it were an oasis that would dance out of reach the moment they got closer. But as Lyara approached, the bridge did not shy from her footsteps. It was real. They had made it.

“Ostagar…” The word still felt foreign on her tongue, but now that she was to have a place to the name…

“It appears King Cailan’s men have already arrived and set up camp. Shall we?”

Lyara nodded, close at the commander’s heels, Xander practically on hers as they marched to the bridge.

“Warden Commander!” A young man stumbled up to the new arrivals, nearly tripping over the spear he wielded. The red lion of Ferelden glinted on his breastplate as he anxiously pushed back the plume on his helmet. The armor he wore clanked with every movement, too small for the man. No… As Lyara looked closer, she realized that he was no more than a boy, much younger than she, and the tanned skin and worn hands he possessed proved that he knew little of war. Xander reached out curiously to sniff the boy, nearly earning the hound a spear to the face.

“Xander, heel.” The warhound shook his head, returning to his master’s side with a sad whine. He just wanted to meet someone new. _Are the wardens and the king so desperate that they rely on farm-boys and bastards to serve them? Every sword is helpful in any battle, but an inexperienced one…One jumping at a dog…_

“At ease, lad.” Duncan’s eyes were steely now, unreadable as he watched the boy jitter in his armor.

“King Cailan wishes to see you at once… Commander. He says that-”

“Make way for the king!”

“Commander!”

There were three men altogether. Two dressed similarly to the shaking youth in front of them, but as he wished to be. They wore no helm, and their armor was polished, shining in the sun. The lions on their chests seemed to roar with ever step, and the swords they held at their sides gently tapped against their hips with each step. There was no falter in their walk, they held their heads high, faces stern. Each man filled through the metal that covered him, and within all of this, there was a deep sense of pride, for themselves, for Ferelden, for their king.

As for the king himself, he was just as proud. Cailan was a giant of a man, standing at least a head-and-a-half taller than Lyara, maybe two, and at least twice her size. Of course, the ornate gold armor that we wore most likely added to this effect, but it was intimidating nonetheless. And it wasn’t that he was just physically intimidating, but that he walked as if he were taller than a horse, no, a castle. Cailan walked as if he didn’t just rule over Ferelden, but all of Thedas. He walked with a swagger that would get most men killed. Lyara was thankful that she didn’t report to him.

“Bow before-”

“I know.” Lyara bristled at the solider before lowering herself in a deep bow. There was always bowing. Bow for the lord. Bow for the lady. Bow for the lady’s brat of a child. Bastards did a lot of bowing, and every time she was reminded to was another reason she was given to hate nobility and their pompous-

“Wench, show some respect-” The man on Cailan’s left darted forward to take her by the bun in her hair. He found himself only catching thin air, and nearly falling as a result.

“I bowed, yes?” She looked to Duncan, the commander pursing his lips, the wrinkles around his eyes barely containing his amusement. The recent events had made her bolder, and tired. A dangerous concoction. But Lyara was too exhausted to heed her own caution, instead, ready to see a tent, a cot, some sort of civilization. Some form of rest.

Cailan had watched the scene play out before him in an amused fashion, similar to one watching a show that was brought by a jester, or as an offering. And when it was all over, he watched for a few moments more, and the laughed. _Laughed_. He laughed until there were tears streaming down his face, the sound echoing through the canyon and rolling over the hills. He laughed as Lyara took her place beside Duncan, and his own man fell back in line, red-faced and wishing for a helmet to cover his embarrassment.

“Duncan!” he sighed, wiping away the tears from his face. “It is good to see you! And your newest…”

“Recruit.” Duncan shot Lyara a glance, the young woman nodding slowly.

“And does the woman who made my man appear as a fool have a name?”

“Lyara. Lyara Cousland, my king.” Lyara offered a small bow, a nod. That, she could do, especially if the king of Ferelden could laugh at her.

_You idiot. He could help you avenge them._

The thought struck her deeper than the boy-soldier’s spear would. This man could help her. If the title of Teyrn was so-

“Ah, yes! The Couslands. How does Bryce fair? And Eleanor, was it?”

Duncan shot her another glance, sympathetic, and warning. _Do not come apart_.

Lyara sucked in a breath. “They are…” _This is your king. You cannot cry in front of your king. You cannot come apart. You are a warrior. You are a rogue. You do not show your emotions. You cannot show your emotions. You cannot-_

“They are… dead… My king. Taken, by Arl Rendon Howe’s treachery.” The last words came out as a feral growl, almost incoherent. Lyara fingers curled into fists, her eyes locked squarely on the ground, at Cailan’s golden feet. “My king…”

To her shock, a solid hand found its way to her shoulder, the young king giving her a sympathetic look.

“If what you say is true, you will have the king’s army at your back once this war against the darkspawn is dealt with. We do not so easily forget the Cousland’s role in reclaiming Feredlen. Howe will pay dearly for his actions.”

Lyara could have cried right then and there. She was so close, the tears right behind her dark eyes. “Thank you.” She didn’t trust herself not to trip over his title, a smile widening on her face. For the first time in weeks, if felt as though she could breathe. The talons around her chest loosened for a moment, but that was enough. It was a start. It was a promise.

_And do you expect him to keep it?_

Always a thought to contradict her. It was a terrible habit, one bred of circumstance and betrayal, especially the recent on, but she couldn’t let it rule her. Couldn’t let the fear rule her. Lyara was tired of fear. Tired of running. Tired of doubt.

            _He better._

            “Then let’s get started,” she nodded, a newfound strength returning to her voice.

            Cailan burst into another round of laughter, slapping the rogue on the back, nearly toppling her. “You brought a good recruit, Duncan! I like her!”

            “I’m glad she pleases you so,” Duncan mumbled, tense. It didn’t take a rogue’s sight to see that he was getting impatient with the young king. But Duncan was refined, and whether or not he wished to admit it, had played the game. He was too polite to interrupt the man that could send the wardens from Ferelden with a wave of his hand. He was at Cailan’s mercy, and in that moment, Lyara realized that too.

            _He makes promises and power, but I am a player to his game now. I am a warden. I am-_

            “It will be good Duncan! Like the stories of old! The King of Ferelden and the Grey Wardens saving all of Thedas! Imagine the legends they will tell of us! The stories that children will be raised on! The tapestries that will be made!” Cailan was waving his hands now, one finding its way around Duncan’s shoulder, leading the commander into Ostagar. “We will be _glorious!”_

            “He could be a bard,” Lyara mumbled, abashed at the king’s carefree personality. He spoke as if he was a green boy himself. Xander whined in agreement.

            “We don’t really have a choice, boy.”

            …

            “What do you think?”

            …

            “Yeah… I miss them too. But this is a chance to change that. To change us. Points for the… runts.”

            Xander yipped.

            “We should probably catch up, huh.”

            And they did, the runt of the litter and the bastard trailing behind the king and his men. The fabled warden-commander of all of Ferelden. True king’s knights.

            “Ya know… It kinda is like what Ser Gilmore said. Like one of those stories…” Lyara scratched one of Xander’s ears as they walked, Cailan’s gradure notions of war and stories surrounding the both of them. “Those always end with the hero winning. What do you think bud?”

            “-And the feasts! The _women_! Can you see it now, Duncan? It will be-”

            “A new start. We can finally-”

 “-show those damned darkspawn who’s really-”

“Got a chance here. Show them we’re-”

“- _Heroes_!”

“Not just bastards.”

Lyara watched the last of Cailan’s movements with a patience, hoping that she could pass some to Duncan across the stones. The poor man appeared deeply shaken, stirred, and dumped in an Orlesian drink. The sigh that escaped his lips when the king made his exit seemed to move his entire body. In that moment, Lyara could see the years on him, beyond the wrinkles in his face and the scars on his hands. She wondered if Cailan was much like his father, Maric. Duncan had mentioned that he was a dear friend. She could only imagine what that kind of energy would do to a person. She didn’t have to imagine what its absence would feel like.

_Orin would have loved him. He would have loved his stories. The king and dragons and darkspawn..._

_Be that story._

“King Cailan,” Lyara stated, watching another sigh escape Duncan.

“King Cailan.”

“He is rather… optimistic about our odds.”

“I’m afraid he is rather optimistic about everything. Many of us have tried to reason with him. The hordes that are out in the wilds… Maker help us all. Maybe we could all use some of his optimism, especially Loghain...” Duncan wrung out his hands and shook his head. “I have a few matters to attend to. I will let you accustom yourself to Ostagar and its inhabitants. There are many to meet, and much to see. See if you can find the other recruits, and when you are ready, find the grey warden Alistair, then meet me in the central pavilion. We can commence your joining.”

With that, Duncan wandered off into the Gates of Ostagar, leaving Lyara standing alone at its entrance, Xander at her side in the crumbling ruins of the war-torn land, dumbfounded and lost.

“Looks like it’s just us… Looks like this is… Home.”

They stood in silence, taking in the scene, the way the dust swirled all around them. The way that death clung to the ruins, and despair was etched into every sword slash and smashed stonework. At one time, this would have been a glorious place, stone arches and columns scraping the heavens, lush plants crawling over everything. A haven. A home. And war took it. Twisted it apart. Killed it.

Again, the crumbling, burning image of Highever flashed through Lyara’s mind. The beautiful mare running over the fields, her mane ablaze. Dying. Dea-

_Be his story._

The words came on the faint breeze that drifted through the crumbling stone columns. Through the dust and smog. Through the despair and confusion.

_Be his story._

Lyara looked to Xander, the hound returning her gaze, and together, they limped through the arches of Ostagar.

 

 

           

           


	7. I'm Not a Lady!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some language. Not much else.

Whatever appearance was maintained at the shell of Ostagar was quickly swept away in its interiors by Cailan and his men. Even a serving boy could, and would have told you that it was impossible to clean a wilderness without domesticating it first, but Maker, did they try. Branches and trees had been cleared in the wide circle at the center of camp, giving way to a monstrous fire, its orange tongues lapping at the sky. Vines and grasses had been hacked away, their contents most likely sacrificed to the burning beast at the center of the ruins, along with anything and everything else its inhabitants had found detrimental to their stay and/or progress.

            Colored tents lined the center of the encampment, huge trespasses of fabric and cords skillfully attached to the loose, rocky ground. Bands of all sorts littered around them: knights, bards, soldiers, mages, Templars, guards, kennelmasters, even a chantry sister. Smaller tents surrounded the outskirts of the set-up, sell-swords that brought their own survival, trying to scavenge as much coin as they could. A few merchants had set up in the northeastern corner, broken walls disintegrating behind them in a makeshift stall. Lyara would have to peruse their wares at the next given opportunity, her own leather armor worn and ragged, her knives and poisons all but gone or rusted.

            Not far from the merchants stood a haphazard prison, or what appeared to be one. A single man sat in a hoisted cage, stripped of his clothing and dignity, a single guard below him. It was a pitiful waste of manpower if what Duncan said was true. Wasting a sword on watching a man that could do nothing but watch from a rusted cage. Lyara doubted that he was worth their time. The camp was all so alive save for that corner. Such a waste of time… 

But it was remarkable, really. However, the truth of their habitation still proved its existence. No matter their work or troubles, their persistence and glorified ideals, they were all still in the center of a crumbling ruin. They were still being swallowed by the wilds they nested in. She hoped that they would soon be on their way from this place. It was a death trap, and nothing anyone said, or did, would change that. Not even Cailan himself.

Xander had quickly abandoned her after their entrance, finding brothers and sisters of his own to entertain himself with. After assuring the kennelmaster that he was indeed hers, and not for sale or sire, she let the hound be. For all his training, he was a social creature, and it would do him good to sleep on a bed instead of the ground. To rest, eat. Even if Lyara was supposed to be catapulted her next steps, she did not have to drag her faithful friend with her. It was then up to her to meet the human occupants of the camp, a task met with mixed feelings.

Her first stop was a rather drab looking tent, weathered and worn, but sturdy. It was the maroon and gold of the king’s men, but not nearly as flashy or large as some of the others had been. A man stood watch outside, a sword strapped so far sideways it sat over his knee, an obvious attempt to prove his power. He reeked of desperation, a man dying to gain some sort of status. He was more dangerous than the farm boy.

“State your business.”

“A meeting.” She didn’t miss a beat. It was a skill she had honed at Highever. Whenever you wanted to meet with someone, or get somewhere, you were there for a meeting. Stand tall, look them straight in the eye. Appear as though it was all planned, that you had a shred of an idea as to what you were doing.

“Loghain isn’t seeing anyone this afternoon.”

_Loghain. The king’s right hand… Quite the lucky draw._

“I wish to see him.”

The guard laughed. “Miss, I told you, Loghain isn’t seeing anyone today. Not run along, sell your wares to another soldier at camp. The sell-swords are-

How dare he compare her to a common whore! Lyara snorted and eyed the guard up and down, drawing herself up (which did her little good, she lacked the stature of her brother, and the height of her foster parents.)

 I am Lyara Cousland, bastard of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, heir to the Highever estate, _and I demand to see Loghain Mac Tir.”_ Each phrase brought her one step closer to the man, each word bringing a brighter fire to her dark eyes, a shaking finger raised against the soldier’s stunned face by the time she was done. If she was to be honest, Lyara was just as astonished as he was at her actions. But it felt good. It felt good to be angry. It felt better to release it. He did, after all, figure her a wench.

“Amaran, what seems to be.. the… issue…” The general made his way from his faded tent flap, a heavy weariness in his eyes and voice. He wasn’t angry, more annoyed, tired, that something had taken from his work again. Lyara could see why Duncan had mentioned his needing of Cailan’s optimism.

_Your men can’t distinguish a soldier from a whore._ She would have said it. She was so close. But she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not when looking at a man that looked and felt as she did. He was waging a war of desperation, lost battles etched in the dark circles under his eyes, and the wrinkles and scars on his face. The black locks on his head were laced with gray, but if what Duncan said was true, he was a young to have the color bleach from him. His hair, his skin, his soul. They were fighting the same war. She would not subject him to another blow.

“Apologies, general,” Lyara nodded. “I had hoped to speak with you for a moment. Only for a moment.”

“Ser, this is Lyara Cousland-”

“Daughter of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, heir to the Highever estate, and demands to see Loghain Mac Tir,” Loghain finished, a small smile playing on his lips. “I know. I assume you also come looking for news of your brother? I had just heard… My deepest condolences. Bryce was a noble man, and Eleanor just as dignified.”

_Daughter? He said daughter. I said bast- Fergus!_ Of course! Fergus had marched to the wilds and must have met with the soldiers here! Of course! “Yes, ser,” Lyara nodded again, more vigorously, trying to contain the chaos that Loghain stirred with his news.

“He is in the wilds, on a scouting mission. I imagine that you wish to… confide in him upon recent events. I must apologize, as I do not know when he will be returning, but I will make him known of your presence at the nearest opportunity. But with the fight…”

“Your word is more than enough for me, general. Thank you so- Thank you.” She bowed. “I will leave you to your duties.” Lyara shot one final glare at the man with the cock-eyed sword before continuing into the heart of the camp, feeling a little less lonely. She was not alone in her battles. She could come to like Loghain.

“You there! Recruit! Woman!” A man hollered from the merchant corner.

_Again with the talk of women. You would think that none of them had ever seen one before._ But she heeded his call and made her way over, a slow shuffle over the hard-packed dirt.

“Duncan told me to find you at once.”

“And he told you this…”

“Your wares, my lady,” he bowed suddenly, Lyara waving off the action. She wasn’t a lady, no matter what she had yelled at the soldier. It had been the first time she had ever dared to use her status, and looking back, she realized that the soldier wouldn’t have let her in on it anyways. The word “bastard” was an unshakable title. But she would wear it with pride. That meant no one would bow. Ever. She was a true bastard now. No home. No place. With Bryce dead… his oath died with him. She was no Cousland. Not anymore. Something about that felt so right, and yet so, so wrong.

The thought soured in her mind, then her throat, making every word sick, disgusting, and nearly impossible to get out. “No need for “my lady”. My wares you said?”

“Yes, my-… Recruit. Warden-Commander Duncan said that you were to be re-fitted for new armor and that you were to buy as you need. It has been paid for in advance,” he rushed out as Lyara moved to object.

_Damn him and his damn favors…_ But she needed it. Dearly. And she didn’t have the coin. She had been wearing the same clothes for weeks, living in them. Living in her armor. Her last dagger had been bent and smashed beyond repair. She didn’t dare use the family sword. It had stayed cradled in its sheath as they fled and fought, and probably would stay that way for many more. She hated the thought of taking the commander’s favors, any favors, but she was in no position to argue.

“Start with the pleated piece.” He motioned behind him to a thick leather breastplate intertwined with golden plates and swatches. It was leagues above what she would have ever dreamed of wearing, and she unapologetically shed her unraveling leather pieces faster than she would ever admit. She didn’t even have time to be abashed at the filth that clung to her tunic or her skin. It was like shedding a skin, borderline euphoric to leave behind the ragged corset of patched leather and unwoven bracers.

“You don’t bear the Cousland sigyl.” It was monotonous, a statement thrown in passing. He could have said that the sky was blue with more gusto.

“You are correct.” Lyara pulled the new plate over her chest and began slipping through the straps, her fingers still quick and nimble.

“I was wondering if you would-”

“Like it emblazed on my chest? No thank you.” It was curt, but not rude. Tired. “I am not a Cousland. I’m sure you know the blasphemous tale. Now more than ever, I would prefer not to have a target on my back… Well, in this case, on my chest.”

“As you wish.”

The rest of her observance was done in silence, the rogue admiring the merchant’s wares, and stocking herself as she saw fit. She would return to another for clothing later. For now, she was outfitted as she wished to be, and offered many thanks to the man that made it possible before continuing on.

She met many a cast of characters as she wandered the camp. There were a number of charming sell-swords, and wenches, all offering wares of their own. A group of mages had set-up far from the king’s men. An old woman, Wyne was busy watching over her staff by a tall, dead, willow tree. She had offered small talk, a gentle voice, and the sense that tensions were still mounting in the camp. Behind her sat a tranquil, his monotonous language dead and unnerving. She was all too happy when Wyne bid her farewell and the tranquil’s glassy eyes left her form. Although, those weren’t the only ones watching her.

Lyara wished she could have said it was hard to ignore the stares that clung to her, even harder to ignore the whispers that slipped through loose lips. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t a surprise. It was a fact of life, one she was used to. Sly looks and abashed guilt were not foreign reactions to her presence. But it did not mean she didn’t notice them. Rather, she took even greater notice of them. Lyara could have told you what they were saying. How they knew her. Some were afraid. Others were curious. Some disgusted. She never would have expected wonder.

“You’re the Cousland… You’re Lyara Cousland!” Lyara flinched, turning to see as to who would dare to call her name in such a place, if ever. Her attentions were focused on a bright-eyed man behind her. He was larger, muscled, most likely a farmer. A cleanly trimmed beard hovered over his chin, fuller than the swatch of hair on his head. But for all that she would have believed him to be, he was smiling. A bright smile. A _real_ smile.

“Forgive me, my lady-“

“You don’t need to call me that,” Lyara protested.

“But I do. As you are.” The man bowed before taking her hand. “Ser Jory, my lady. I was a farmer in Highever before I left to join the wardens. You… you came to visit during a drought. You and Fergus actually helped us plant and work. I doubt you remember, you were very young, but it was much appreciated.”

Lyara simply nodded, unable to speak. She was stunned. It was a rarity that anyone paid attention to her in her youth. The fact that someone remembered… She felt guilty that she didn’t. But she did remember the drought, how Bryce had taken her and Fergus out to the countryside. They had spent days hopping between farms and families, bringing food and supplies, hands, comfort to all that they could. She remembered meeting so many people, so many children. And if they weren’t working, they were playing and sharing stories. They ran as knights and dragons and kings and queens and magic and freedom. They were children, and even in the hell of that drought, it was beautiful.

“I am sorry that I do not remember good ser, but I do remember that drought. I remember…”

“It is alright, my lady. But now that you are here, I have to thank you. But why are you here? Are you-”

“I am Duncan’s newest recruit.”

“You- But…” He hadn’t heard the news. And for some reason, she couldn’t bear to tell him. Not then. Not in this moment. Her face must have told him that much, as he quickly changed directions.

“There’s another man here too… The three of us are the newest recruits. Daveth. Hey! Daveth! Quit pocket cleaning and get over here.”

The man, presumably Daveth, quickly shot up, jumping away from a young soldier, a scowl on his face. His hands were empty.

“Andraste’s ass Jory, I was going to make a bit of coin off of him. This is our newest? Some green girl? Fresh meat?”

Lyara’s eyes narrowed. New? Yes. Inexperienced? Not a chance. “No you weren’t. He wasn’t carrying anything. He’s a foot soldier. A green boy. If you really want to be making money, head out over to the commanders. The ones standing outside Loghain’s tent, or Cailan’s. They carry pockets just beside their swords. Left side. Part of the uniform.”

They were silent for a moment, both men taking in the young woman who so nonchalantly spoke of crimes that could get her hung, and then laughed. Laughed until they cried and then laughed more.

“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine then,” Daveth grinned.

“Daveth, meet Lyara Cousland. Heir to the Highever estate-”

“You heard that too?” Lyara sighed.

“The whole camp heard it, lass.”

“I… didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Jory was probably the only one to actually think anything of it. He’s been too good.”

“I haven’t been trying to swipe coin while I’ve been staying in _King Cailan’s camp_. And if I remember correctly, it was you that got conscripted because you got caught. _Stealing the king’s coin_.”

Daveth shrugged. “It’s better than rotting in a cell. I can continue my work.”

“You can continue getting us all in trouble,” Jory shook his head.

“We can’t all be fortunate enough to volunteer to fight to our deaths,” Daveth narrowed. “Speaking of fighting to the death, I do believe our fearless commander was looking for us. Our final test, now that our last compatriot made it here.”

“The joining?” Lyara questioned. “I couldn’t get him to tell me anything about it. At all…”

“Like I said, a fight to our death,” Daveth shook his head. “Why else would they be so secretive?”

“They wouldn’t have very many wardens if they killed them all,” Jory reasoned.

“That’s probably why they have to keep recruiting more,” Daveth soured.

“There’s that other one… What was his name… Alistair? The young one. He can’t be much older than you, Lyara. They kept him alive. You should go talk to him, Lyara. Duncan said that we should get ahold of him too before we… do whatever we are supposed to do for this joining.”

“You better get going too,” Daveth added. “People around here all seem to be in a jump about something. At least, the high up ones. The little men don’t seem to are much, looking for glory, but the big ones… That Loghain man… Something isn’t right here. And if I’m right, we might be headed into the thick of it. Watch your back Cousland, or you might just wake up with a darkspawn chewing on it.”

“Daveth!” But the man was already gone, slipping off to go pickpocket the next unfortunate soul that he passed.

“My apologies on behalf of… him,” Jory frowned. “He is a rather gruesome young man, he is. From Orlais. Rather… open. But I suppose he holds a ring of truth with him. Be careful, my la- Lyara.”

Lyara sighed, the pit in her stomach growing as she watched her soon-to-be comrades make their way to the bonfire at the center of camp. She couldn’t deny that she enjoyed their company already, Jory’s kindness, and Daveth’s sly work was… entertaining to say the least. But their warnings brought tension to her. Especially Daveth’s, for all its humor. She had the sinking feeling that the rogue was right. Perhaps this Alistair would know more.

He couldn’t be any worse than a darkspawn chewing on her back.


	8. A Notice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello for anyone who has read this or stumbles upon it! 
> 
> Unfortunately, I have come to a point in my life where I cannot continuously contribute to this project in a timely manner, and have to see it postponed. I hope to take it up in the future, but as of now, I am unable to add to the story due to school and work. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading/stopping by and I hope to see you again once this takes off! (The plan is mid-Decemnber)
> 
> Many apologies, and thanks!

Oh the joy of notes and all that is filled in them.


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